


The Five Times in One Day John Didn't Come and the One Time She Did

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Genderswap, John Shoves Sherlock Against a Wall, Mycroft Shoves Sherlock Against a Wall, Mystrade (Background) - Freeform, Referenced Self Harm/Cutting (Mycroft)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:40:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2393858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's efforts are thwarted all day long. A series of drabbles of established Fem!Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sick Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sick baby will thwart plans, even if it isn't yours.

John asked the cracked ceiling,

“Is there anything better than sleepy sex in the morning?”

She curled an arm around Sherlock’s rocking hips. She lifted her head, licked Sherlock’s nipple lazily, and then answered herself.

“No, there is not.”

Sherlock whimpered. John lay propped up on one hip with pillows, the hip that Sherlock was currently riding to orgasm.

John continued.“Waking up to my brilliant, beautiful dragon, having her way _on_ me. Bliss, pure bliss. I love everything about you, Love, from your magnificent claws,” John flicked Sherlock’s long plum-coloured nails—relic of another nightclub case—“to your breath, which could strip the lino, by-the-by.”

“You’re. One. To. Talk!” panted Sherlock. “John!”

Sherlock collapsed, smothering John in warm, heavy limbs. “I’m going to flick my forked tongue all over your little Hobbit body. Burn you to a crisp,” she growled.

John hummed.

_Doo-doo-doo!_

Sherlock's extended arm, a victim of post-orgasmic lethargy, was two seconds too slow.

“Watson. G’morning. Slow down. Ok, ok. How’s the breathing? _Oh._ Yeah. _Oh._ Fever, too? Yeah, better see a specialist. Umm.” John looked at her watch. Sherlock sank her teeth into John’s side; John rapped her soundly on the back of the head.

“Yeah, sure. No problem, I promise. Yes, I have keys. Hope it’s nothing.”

“ _John_...”

“Baby’s sick. Sarah wants me to open the surgery.”

John eased out from under Sherlock and reached for her pants.

“No time for quickie?” asked Sherlock lightly, pushing up on her hands.

A cold draft cut through the room.

John pulled on her shirt. “Wish I could...”

“ _John_...”

“I know. Hope to be back by lunchtime.”

She brushed a kiss on Sherlock’s head, picked up her shoes and socks, and headed downstairs.

All without meeting Sherlock’s gaze.

 


	2. The Tube

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes cabs for a reason.

**Where are you? JW**

**Bart’s. On my way home. SH**

Sherlock calculated the time she needed to achieve her objective. Then, she headed toward the tube station.

**Haven’t visited the alley recently. SH**

John smiled. She placed the top piece of bread on her sandwich and sat down at the kitchen table.

**Worth a re-visit. See if it’s changed since last time. SH**

**Think your sister was watching last time. JW**

**Good. Might have learned something. Expect Lestrade to send fruit basket. SH**

John laughed. She ate her sandwich, but her mind kept flashing scenes of adrenaline-fuelled groping. Impatient tugging of clothing. Sherlock’s filthy mouth. And her even filthier tongue.

“Holy Mother of God,” said John, rubbing the back of her head, dropping the half-eaten sandwich on her plate.

**Last time too short. We could linger. SH**

“You’re mad,” whispered John to the phone. The sandwich lay untouched.

**Linger any longer and we’ll be arrested. JW**

**Not if Mycroft’s watching. SH**

“That’s it,” said John, rising from the table.

**Sherlock**

Sherlock grinned at the roof of the tube car. She checked her watch. “Perfect.”

**My bed. SH**

John stopped halfway up the stairs, turned, and raced down the hall towards Sherlock’s bedroom. She threw her mobile on the bed, opened her trousers, and slid onto a pillow, shoving it snugly between her legs.

**Tell me. JW**

**What? SH**

**How you’ll fuck me. JW**

Sherlock stifled the urge to crow in public. She threw her head back against the seat and smiled. And then, her world went dark. Her growl of frustration joined her fellow passengers’ cries of alarm. She tapped her mobile. Nothing. She threw it against the seat. “This. Is. Why. I. Take. Cabs!” she howled into the darkness.

**Sherlock? JW**

**Sherlock? JW**

**:( JW**

“Stupid Watson,” muttered John as she slid the rest of the sandwich into the rubbish bin.

 


	3. Sherlock Smells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock brings home more than just the scent of frustration.

“You’re not aroused.”

“You just came—you mad, gorgeous beast— _on_ me. How could I fail to be aroused?”

Sherlock squeezed John’s thighs between hers. John kissed the valley between Sherlock’s breasts and gripped her arse tighter beneath layers of knickers and open trousers. The kitchen chair groaned under their combined weight.

"I'm just relieved you're safe. Sounds frightful, the tube business."

"Try again."

“Maybe it’s the new tea." Both women looked at the two half-drained cups on the kitchen table beside them. “It’s called ‘Gentleman.’ Came recommended. A blend of flowery orange pekoes from India, Ceylon, and China.”

Sherlock snorted and read from the packaging: “’A very masculine blend.’ Really, John. Are we too much woman for our tea?”

John giggled and tugged Sherlock’s half-unbuttoned blouse from the waistband of her trousers. “Mmmm. It’s not bad. The tea, I mean. Needs to be babied. Lots of milk. Lots of sugar. Not unlike a certain consulting detective. Who needs babying, stroking. Ego. Other, more delectable, parts.” John licked at the swell of Sherlock’s breast. “I _like_ it when the dragon sits in the Hobbit’s lap.”

Sherlock hummed. She carded her fingers through John’s hair and then yanked.

Head pulled back, John looked into flashing mercurial grey eyes.

Sherlock issued the verdict. “Amused. But not aroused.” She released her grip. “Tell me.”

John sighed softly, head down.

“You smell.”

“Like…morgue?”

“And Molly.”

John felt the gasp. Then, she was upside-down, moving down the hall.

“Hey, I didn’t fi-i-i-inish my tea!” cried John as she bounced on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You can make more after we shower.”


	4. Cold Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turn-of-the-century plumbing is decidedly unsporting.

“Shower sex is always more erotic in theory than in practice,” said John. The hot spray was bouncing off Sherlock’s body at odd angles. “The space’s too small. You’re either too cold or too hot.” Sherlock kissed John’s lips. “Mmmm. That’s nice…”

“Not nice enough to distract you from your diatribe,” mumbled Sherlock.

“…You’re libel to get poked in the eye with water. Repeatedly. Or the hot water runs out.”

“Water is not a lubricant,” added Sherlock, kissing down one side of John’s neck.

“Definitely not,” agreed John. Sherlock reached the juncture of John’s shoulder and neck. “Right there, Love, _yes_. And…there’s absolutely no good…leverage.” John’s foot slipped with a squeak.

“Put your foot here.”

“That’s not going to work, Sherlock.”

“Put the other one here.”

“Not going to…Sherlock… _Oh_... _Hello_ …That’s…that’s… _working_. Oh God, Sherlock. _Yes_. Just right, right there. No, a little to the…Oh, _Sherlock_.” John draped herself against Sherlock as Sherlock rotated her hips in slight figure eights. Both groaned.

“In case you were wondering, I am _aroused_ ,” John slurred into Sherlock’s open mouth. A low, satisfied rumble was building in the back Sherlock’s throat when they were both slapped with cold water.

“Ugh, ugh!” squealed John, clutching Sherlock as her feet lost purchase.

“Fuck!” snarled Sherlock. With one arm tethered around John’s waist, she turned off the taps and pulled the curtain back. Then, she deposited a shivering John on the mat and wrapped a towel around her. Sherlock stepped out of the shower and wrapped a second towel around herself.

“Wait,” Sherlock ordered. She reappeared with a short dressing gown of light grey jersey.

John took the garment and held it up. “This is new.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll go make tea and leave you to it.” John nodded to the shower.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and huffed in protest.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I had you confused with the other Sherlock Holmes. The one that _likes_ my tongue in her arse.”

Sherlock turned on the cold tap and gave John a defiant look. “Transport,” she said with a smirk, dropped the towel, and disappeared behind the curtain.

John finished drying herself and slipped on the dressing gown.

“Sherlock, did you get this for you?”

“No,” answered Sherlock from behind the curtain.

“Oh. I mean, it’s lovely, so _soft_. But are there trousers?”

“No.”

“It’s too short. It barely covers my…”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“ _Oh._ Naughty dragon.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Milk, sugar, John. Lots of it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”


	5. Chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turn-of-the-century furniture is even less sporting than turn-of-the century plumbing. 
> 
> TW for John shoving Sherlock against a wall.

John sipped her tea. She felt Sherlock at her back, ten claws sinking into the flesh of her buttocks, teeth nibbling at the nape of her neck.

“Here is yours,” murmured John, nodding to the cup on the counter.

“If you knew how badly I want you right now, you would not be offering me tea. _John_.” The last word was begging, Holmesian style. John put her cup down and turned in Sherlock’s arms, opening her dressing gown. When skin touched skin, both women groaned. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist under the thin fabric and pushed her against the counter. She cupped John’s mons with her other hand. John put her arms back, tipping over both cups. Brown liquid poured out along the counter and dropped into the sink and onto the floor.

Neither woman noticed.

“Bedroom,” said John.

“Can’t wait. _All day._ Here,” insisted Sherlock. Sherlock moved them to the kitchen chair. She straddled John’s knees splayed, her hand never leaving John’s core. She toyed with John’s breasts and nipples, all the while, teasing her mouth with a ruthless tongue.

“Christ, Sherlock,” panted John. “It’s not enough...”

“I got your friction,” growled Sherlock, rubbing frantically between John’s legs; with her free hand, she gripped the back of the chair, behind John’s neck, for better leverage.

“Sherlock, Jesus Christ, more....” John wiggled her hips to meet Sherlock’s hand. “Yes, yes, you beautiful dragon, almost, almost....” John bit at Sherlock’s mouth and arched up into her hand, rocking violently.

**_CRA-A-ACK, CRACK!_ **

The two collapsed to the floor in a heap of splintered wood, dressing gowns, and sweaty flesh.

“Sherlock! Are you okay?”

“You’re the one in the middle, John. Are you?” Sherlock rolled them off the chair pieces onto their sides. Each ran searching hands over the other.

“John, you’re bleeding.” They both looked down and saw red-brown streaks on grey jersey.

“Where...?” John mumbled, twisting her legs. Then, she got to her feet awkwardly and headed for the toilet.

Sherlock raised her hand in front of her face, staring at two smeared fingers. She said slowly, “I...scratched...your cunt.” She shook her head and then ran to the toilet door, which locked with a _click_.

“John!” Sherlock pounded on the door. “I... _injured_...you. Let! Me! In!”

“It was an accident, Sherlock, but no. This is awkward enough.” John inhaled deeply. “Okay, okay. Mirror. Saline. Gloves. Gauze. Antiseptic,” she muttered. “What a pain in the arse. Or near the arse rather.”

“LET ME IN!”

“NO!”

Sherlock curled on the floor against the door, head pressed to the juncture of door and wall.

“It’s just a scratch, Sherlock. Stings, but that’s it. I’m going to fashion some kind of...something...to protect it for a little while, keep it clean. I guess I can’t very well put a plaster on it, heh, heh. Okay, okay, that’ll work.”

“John, but...?” Sherlock whined, looking toward the kitchen.

“Sherlock, forget about it.”

Sherlock stood up and paced in front of the door. “I WILL NOT FORGET ABOUT IT. I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO FUCK YOU ALL BLOODY DAY!” She stopped screaming and slammed both fists into the wall. “IF ALL THE BABIES AND THE TUBE AND THE PLUMBING AND THE FURNITURE AND YOUR _BLOODY BODY_ WOULD JUST COOPERATE!”

**_WHAM!_ **

The door flew open. Sherlock’s head hit the wall, one arm pinned tightly across her chest, the other across her throat.

John’s fury-filled eyes locked with Sherlock’s stunned ones. Her lips were a breath’s distance from Sherlock’s, snarling, sneering, spitting. “Stop boring me and think for once before you shoot your mouth off like a bloody twat!”

Sherlock froze. Her head didn’t turn, not when John retreated down the hallway; not when she clomped downstairs, fully dressed; and not when she announced gruffly to a still flat, “Pub. Air.”

But when the front door closed, Sherlock crumpled to the floor like a string-cut marionette.

 

 


	6. Interlude: At the Pub with Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft offers empathy and counsel. 
> 
> TW: reference to Mycroft's self harm (cutting) and Mycroft recounting how she also shoved Sherlock into a wall when they were younger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of my stories take place in the same AU so Mycroft and John are referencing events in other stories. The scene between Mycroft and Sherlock is Chapter 2 of the [5+1 lipstick](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1541153/chapters/3276017) story. Mycroft's arc goes divorce ([Crack in the Ice](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1090654/chapters/2195152)), transition/transformation [Earl Grey](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1826656), [Divested](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1122324)), and then Mystrade ([Black Honey](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1515455/chapters/3203099), [Night In/Night Out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1601384/chapters/3407897), [Falling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1656500/chapters/3513659) and parts of a lot of other stories). John's sexuality is dealt with in [Backstory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1135128/chapters/2294789).

“Ahem.”

John waved to the empty barstool beside her. An umbrella appeared on the hook beneath the bar.

“Why are you here?” John’s question echoed into her glass. “Unless there _are_ cameras in the flat. Or can you deduce our little domestic by a stain on my sleeve. You know, I’m kind of surprised you’d deign to come here. Sherlock busts into my bedroom all the time, despite numerous conversations about privacy and personal space. Here? She’s never set foot in here.” John sipped.

“My presence was requested.”

It took some long moments for John to reply as she dealt with the uncomfortable sensation of lager burning her nasal cavities. She snorted and sputtered and coughed and swore.

“ _Sherlock. Called. You._ ” Every word was laced with incredulity.

“If you mean ‘call’ in the sense of ‘contact,’ yes. My reaction was not unlike your own, minus the beverage disturbance.” Mycroft gave John a quick, bland, civil-servant-for-life smile. “Ahem....” She threw a mildly disgusted look at John’s pint. “That is to say....”

John smiled. “It would be simplest to announce ‘I’ll have what she’s having,’ no? But that would be....”

“Most unpleasant.”

John waved to the barman. “Two whiskies, top-shelf.” She turned to Mycroft. “Better?”

“Marginally. So I presume that I am here to provide some insight into Sherlock, perhaps shed some light on her current behaviour based on past history, development, etcetera.”

“Cheers,” said John when the drinks arrived.

“Cheers.”

They both sipped.

“No, you aren’t here about Sherlock. You’re here to provide...empathy...for me.”

To her credit, Mycroft did not snort or sputter or cough or swear, but John would bet her army pension that the whiskey scorched the inner canals of Mycroft’s aquiline nose like a bitch.

They sat side-by-side in silence for some time. John drinking, Mycroft pretending to drink.

Finally, after a goal had been scored on the telly and the room had erupted in cheers and then quieted, John spoke.

“You know that part in the story when the one lover says, “Come for me, baby” and the other lover does?”

“I am not an _avid_ consumer of that type of literature.” Mycroft avoided John’s smirk by sipping her drink and then grimacing at the glass. “Fantasy has its place, but....” She met John’s gaze and sighed. “I can more easily imagine my having Lovecraftian tentacles.”

“Oh, I can easily imagine you with tentacles,” agreed John. She sighed. “When your body doesn’t respond the way you’d wish.” She added softly, “The way it’s supposed to. When it doesn’t meet anyone’s expectations, least of all your own.”

“See a doctor,” quipped Mycroft.

“Or a therapist,” retorted John, returning Mycroft’s mischievous smile.

“See two. Or seven. See a _sex surrogate_ ,” said Mycroft, with mock surprise.

John laughed and shook her head. “Or a prostitute. A professional!”

“Take a pill.”

“Take two.”

“Here’s a cream.”

“Stop taking pills. Go natural. Try an _herbal_ tea.” John made a gagging noise; Mycroft shuddered.

“Don’t think about it. Relax.”

“Just concentrate. Focus.”

“Exercise.”

“Pray.”

“Experiment.”

“Leave it alone. Forget about it.”

“Get a toy.”

“Get a girlfriend or a boyfriend or both,” said John. “Or maybe you’re asexual.”

“Maybe you’re autochorissexual.”

“Ooo, fancy word. Do I get a parade with that?”

“No, you just get to watch others'.” Mycroft smiled and then added solemnly, “You just haven’t found the right person yet.”

“You just _aren’t_ the right person yet,” countered John.

“Indeed.”

Mycroft continued, “It’s enough to make you...”

“Go to war?”

“Or start one. Just because you _can_.”

John laughed. “Christ.” She thumped Mycroft on the back. “Thank you for being here.”

Mycroft bit her lip, Holmesian style.

John put her elbows on the bar, bowed her head, and ruffled her short blonde hair with two hands.

“I touched her in anger, Mycroft. Pure anger. Threw her against a wall. What does that make me? Some kind of domestic abuser? Do I need to enter myself into a programme with a bunch of other tossers? Is it broken, permanently? Will she forgive me? Will she trust me? How utterly _stupid_ can I be?!”

Mycroft sighed.

“On the day I was to be married, on the way to sign the license, in fact, Sherlock appeared in the street, high as the proverbial kite, intent on begging for money. I had cut her off financially and hadn’t seen her in quite some time—my powers of surveillance were not what they are today.” John gave her a wry smile. “My career was just beginning, and I felt this unremitting drive to portray normalcy. It was all a chess game, and a junkie sister wasn’t part of the strategy. I threw her against a wall. Busted her lip, possibly her nose, too. We didn’t speak for years.”

Mycroft sipped her whiskey. When she set the glass down, she continued,

“Dr. Watson, John, I gave an oath...a _deathbed_ oath...to protect Sherlock, against the world, against herself, against everything that would harm her, within and without, and not only did _I_ harm her...in pure anger, as you say...I turned my back on her, for quite some time. Left her to poison herself and stumble into the arms of most unsavoury characters.”

“Christ,” breathed John. “I bet you cut yourself to ribbons that day.”

Mycroft shook her head slowly. “Sadly, no. I went on my honeymoon and participated in ten days of enthusiastic heterosexual sex.” Mycroft’s face contorted in mock horror.

John burst into laughter. When the giggles subsided, she said, “Jesus, Mycroft, you do take your punishment seriously.”

“Indeed. My point is that Sherlock and I have never spoken of it, never acknowledged it, and that moment of anger, of violence, haunts me still. We won’t, and that’s our lot. But you’re different, John. Go back, and you’ll find a way to make it right. Your instincts with her are spot-on. Truly.”

Mycroft lifted a hand as if to touch John’s shoulder, but then returned it to her side. “She would move heaven and earth for you. Quite understandable, actually.” She eased off the barstool, retrieving her umbrella. “Well, must dash.” She nodded to the telly as the room erupted anew. “My money is on Arsenal.”

John looked over her shoulder and grinned. “Lestrade is rubbing off on you.”

Mycroft flashed a wicked smile. “In all the right ways. Good night, Dr. Watson.”

“G’night.”


	7. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns to the flat. Pillow talk ensues.

John wasn’t sure what she’d find when she returned to the flat, but the scene that welcomed her was not half as melodramatic as she had imagined. Sherlock was dressed in shirt and trousers, sitting at the kitchen table, studying something under the microscope.

John ran a hand through her hair. The splintered chair and the spilled tea glared at her, accusingly. She sighed at the thought of tidying.

“Why bother when you’re leaving?” Sherlock’s cold eyes met John’s surprised ones.

_Leaving? Christ, I’m an idiot._

John opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.

“Right...Quite right...you don’t want to live with your...abuser.”

_I’m going to have to enter a programme._

Sherlock stared at her. “Surely, you don’t want to share quarters with someone so cavalier about your...

“...dysfunction,” supplied John.

Sherlock huffed. “...insecurity. Plus, the general thoughtlessness must be tiresome.” She held up her hand, displaying fingernails cut short, filed smoothed, and devoid of lacquer.

John walked around behind Sherlock. She raised her hands to touch her, and then dropped them. She rested her forehead against the back of Sherlock’s head and looked down her back.

“I am so completely sorry for my anger and for my violence. My vocation is to care for you, Sherlock, to protect you, and I failed horribly. I don’t want to leave. In fact, the thought hadn’t occurred to me, nor quite frankly, the thought that you might want me to leave, which shows how much of an idiot I still am.”

Sherlock turned.

“Don’t leave, John. Ever.”

John held Sherlock by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.

“Listen to me, Sherlock, engrave this in stone and put it in your Mind Palace: love me the way that you love me, today, in this moment, and I will never, ever, leave you. That’s a promise.” John pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace.

“It’s enough?” whispered Sherlock.

“Sherlock, we both have moments of thoughtlessness and selfishness. But is that all that we are? You sent your sister, whom you loathe, to talk to me because you knew it would help. And it did. And I know it cost you ego and pride to do that. That’s selflessness and thoughtfulness and love.” John brushed Sherlock’s cheek gently. “Forgive me, Sherlock.”

“Your anger, your violence, don’t disturb me, John. Frankly, I haven’t even been considering them, except as a testament to just how provoking my carelessness was today.”

“It was wrong, Sherlock, what I did. And I never want it to happen again, but let’s go to bed and finish this someplace,” John grimaced at the chair, “else.” Sherlock nodded. John glanced at the microscope. “What were you...?” Then she spied the cut fingernails on the table. “Oh, love.”

“Scrapings...of...you.”

“I’ll give you all the samples you want, Sherlock, just come upstairs with me.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up like a child on Christmas.

_I’m going to regret that little promise, aren’t I? Well done, Watson. You’re going to have to forfeit a kidney. Or quarts of lymph._

The pair moved through their evening rituals in silence.

Sherlock was already in bed when John padded up the stairs. They lay side-by-side, facing each other, heads on separate pillows.

John pulled the bedclothes up to their chests. They stared. Then Sherlock said,

“If I’m unique...then you’ll never leave.”

“You’re the _world’s only_ consulting detective...unique is in the job title.”

Sherlock shook her head.

“If I’m unique _here_...,” she patted the mattress between them, “then you’ll never leave. Then, it means we’re compatible. Mates. Mates for life.”

“Sherlock, you don’t _make_ me come.”

“No. But I ensure optimal conditions for your coming.”

John opened her mouth to object, but then closed it, rolling onto her back, considering Sherlock’s words.

“True,” John said finally. “But part of the optimal conditions is the absence of expectation. The beauty of us _here_ is that I can enjoy touching you and being touched by you and playing all the crazy games we play and not worry that there’s some finish line I have to cross, some box that I have to check, for it to be considered a ‘success.’ And part of that...I guess...is that you’d never be fooled by artifice. If I fake it, you’ll know.”

“I don’t want any part of artifice, John.”

“Nor do I, anymore. But it was such a part of my life, Sherlock. It’s second nature. And when I sense that you’re expecting something and that I’m disappointing you because my body isn’t _cooperating_...”

“Foolish words, John. Ones I would rip from the ether if I could. The product of ego and frustration and...”

“A very odd day.”

“...yes and the sense that there was an imbalanced scorecard...”

“No! No scorecards, Sherlock!” John crawled atop Sherlock and pinned her hands beside her head. “Scorecards make you common...and you are unique....” _Kiss._ “And unique....” _Kiss._ “But ultimately, it’s your love, here and everywhere....” John rose up and gestured the entire flat and the world outside. “That makes me never want to leave.” _Kiss._

“You don’t need declarations?”

“I don’t need orgasms and I don’t need declarations to love you, Sherlock.”

“I have...said it,” said Sherlock, blushing.

“What?!”

“Four times. Twice when you were asleep, once when you were unconscious, and once when you were delirious.”

John smiled.

“I was...practising.”

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes, my mate for life. Practise all you want.” John gently lowered herself to Sherlock, kissing her soundly on the lips.

 

* * *

 

Baker Street was still blanketed in darkness when John found herself in that delectable limbo-land between sleep and waking.  She reached for Sherlock and touched her sweat-damp neck. “Warm,” she mumbled, licking the sweat. John pulled her vest over her head and pressed her bare chest to Sherlock’s back. Sherlock turned on her stomach and John moved on top of her, even in her sleepy state, rolling her hips away from the body beneath her. John’s nipples touched silk and then she pulled the straps of Sherlock’s nightgown down so that they brushed skin. She continued pulling as she moved down Sherlock's body. John groaned when she reached lacy tap pants.

“Yes, yes, you brilliant girl.” John rut, revelling in the sensation of lace against her breasts and stomach. She even turned and rubbed the scar against it. Sherlock arched and wiggled her arse, prompting John to bite the flesh of her lower back on each side and growl. John cupped a breast in each hand and circled the nipples against the rough material. She bent to lick and bite Sherlock’s thighs. Then, she rut again, harder, faster. Sweat beaded on her neck and chest.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

She scampered up Sherlock’s back like a lizard on a warm rock and pressed her hips to Sherlock’s arse tightly, not moving. She sank her teeth into the left side of Sherlock’s neck as the warm sweetness burst inside her.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” she sighed.

Sherlock eased John underneath her. The first rays of morning sun broke through the window.

“Hobbit was promised licking.”

“Lick away, my Beloved Dragon.”

_Let’s start the day off right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I really do appreciate every hit and kudo and comment. They make my day, week, month.


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